


Sing Her Your Lullaby

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Children of Characters, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:12:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, when Alice gets in contact with Porthos again - it's with news that could change Porthos' life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Her Your Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off two things: one is a very short dream I had a few months back because I am trash for Porthos forever, and two, based off an interview that Howard Charles gave in terms for what he'd like to see for Porthos in season 3. Also, I like to torture myself.

Paris looks different after so many years away with war. Athos leads the way through the winding streets back towards the garrison, d’Artagnan kicking up dust in his hurry to get back to Constance. Paris looks smaller than before, Porthos thinks, but no less welcoming. It’s home to him, always has been, and seeing it again after so many years is the perfect kind of homecoming, with his three brothers by his side. They all made it out alive. They all made it out. 

The horses are dressed down, the garrison gets musketeer after musketeer returning and slowly, so slowly, it starts to look like it always has – like they’ve never left. The older musketeers, veterans, left to hold down the garrison since they were too old to man the warfront mill around with the younger men, more seasoned now after the years away. It’s home. It’s welcome. 

Paris is just as he remembers it being. Aramis bumps his shoulder, gives him a small smile around the grit and dirt and the mess of his hair – tied back in a ribbon, because even in war he has to find a way to look pretty – and Porthos thinks, yes, this is how it’s meant to be. His body aches, sore and worn from the long war, but together still – only a few new scars to show for his time away. 

He spends that night pressing down against Aramis, kissing him with breath and teeth and tongue, grinning, swallowing around Aramis’ answering laughs – a kind of hysterical, reverent happiness at being _alive_ , at having made it out. They’re alive. They’re together. They thread their fingers together, press together, kiss not as if it is the last moment but the beginning of an entire life stretching out before them. 

Four days later, Porthos receives a letter. Aramis is dozing on Porthos’ bed, face cushioned against his arm – it’ll leave creases in his cheek and he’ll whine about it until they fade, but Porthos doesn’t bother rearranging him and just lets him rest. It’s been a long day, soothing themselves back into the habit of patrol and guard after wartime. Paris is in celebrations at the resolution of the war. There’s still a lot to be done – but it’ll be worth it all, to have peace again. 

The letter itself is a surprise, if only because he’s not sure who would think to write him – Flea can’t read or write, after all, and he has no family who would wish him well in wake of war. The writing across the flap is ornate, beautiful and intricate. 

When he opens it, though, it’s clear who the letter is from: 

Alice. 

His heart twists up in his chest at the thought of her. It’s been years – four, almost five since he last saw her, and yet thinking of her can still make him ache like this. He breathes out, smiles to himself at the thought that she should still be in Paris. Perhaps she travelled like she wished, found someone who could guide her the way she wanted and see all the sights he’d set out for her. They might have been able to travel together, once upon a time. 

He reads through her words – pleasantries, but not platitudes. He can see it in the lines of her script, the poised resolve but the understated worry. Alice always was easily underestimated in her quiet way, the glimmer in her eye betraying a quieter mischief and disobedience. Hehr words are simple – inquiring to his health, expressing gratitude that he should have made it out of the war, hidden meanings written in each line: she thought of him, she missed him, she wanted to see him. She thinks of him often. She thinks of him fondly. 

He reads over each line, smiling to himself. His fingertips touch at loops of her handwriting, imagines her sitting at her table, head bent slightly to the side, her lips quirked into her gentle, sweet smile – writing to him, thinking of him. 

And then the last paragraph hits him like a punch straight to the gut, twisting up and stealing his breath, _should you find yourself in Paris this month I would request that you visit. I would love to see you again and catch up on lost years. And meet my daughter._

Daughter. 

_With so much love,  
Alice._

He stares down at the page. There’s a ringing in his ears and in that still, quiet moment the thoughts come unbidden, hurried, uncertain. Daughter—

Too long he sits there, it seems, because he hears some snorting and mumbling off to his left that means that Aramis is waking up from his catnap. He hears him yawn, stretch, scratch at his hair before fixing his ribbon and making himself presentable. He even hears the soft whine when he undoubtedly drags his fingers over his cheek and feels the creases there. If this had happened five minutes ago, Porthos would laugh. Now, he sits in a stony, chilled silence. 

When Porthos doesn’t react, doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, Aramis calls out, “Porthos?” 

Porthos hesitates – remembers Aramis’ anger, his jealousy, at the mere mention of Alice – even years later a thought of her would be enough to get Aramis to bristle. Porthos debates. Thinks of just folding up the letter, pretending it is nothing, pretending that he is fine, that there is no reason for Aramis to worry over such things. 

But then just holds out the letter to him. Aramis takes it obediently, making himself comfortable as he unfolds the paper before him. Porthos watches Aramis for his reaction, sees the exact moment he realizes it is a letter from Alice – watches the way he purses his lips, the way his face turns livid in suppressed anger before he flickers his eyes towards Porthos and forces himself into a tired kind of neutrality. He sees the exact moment Aramis reaches the end of the letter. 

He reads it over, and goes very still and very quiet. Porthos sucks in a sharp breath and then has to look away before Aramis looks up. Porthos doesn’t look at him. 

Daughter. 

Aramis is silent for a very long time. And then he stands, moving to his side and returning the letter. He hesitates for a moment, and then rests his hand on his shoulder. “Do you think…?”

“I don’t know,” Porthos answers, quickly, staring at anywhere in the room but Aramis. “It’s – if it were, she wouldn’t just… say it like that, would she?” 

He feels Aramis shrug. He hears him speak, purposefully light to shield whatever he’s truly feeling, “You know her better than I.” 

Porthos looks up at him sharply and Aramis doesn’t flinch away, but does shift his eyes elsewhere, jaw clenched. 

“Don’t start that,” Porthos mutters. He isn’t in the mood, he is too frazzled, too rattled to spare any sympathy to Aramis’ busted ego. It’s over. He hasn’t seen her in years and yet even now he’s still jealous, even now he’s still—

Aramis ducks his head, at least has the decency to look guilty. Porthos knows he can’t help it, knows this is how Aramis is, always has been – knows that Aramis is _trying_ , at least, to not burden Porthos with such thoughts. If it were just a normal letter, if it hadn’t ended on such a statement, Porthos would take him in his arms and reassure him. Now, he just—

Porthos breathes out through his nose and stands, abruptly, just for the sake of moving – walking around the room in agitation. He shrugs away Aramis’ hand on his shoulder. 

He thinks of Alice – the way she smiled to him, saw through his attempts for money and accepted his company anyway with just a hint of teasing. He remembers her holding out the candle-snuffer to him, knowing full well what it meant, and smiling at him all the same – inviting him back the next night, and the night after that. He remembers holding her in her bed, the most comfortable, luxurious bed Porthos has ever slept in, remembers the way she touched at his scar like it wasn’t anything to fear or hate. Alice, who always spoke her mind directly, who never shied away from what was expected to be said. 

“She might just say it outright like that,” he finally says, stares out the window to his room and breathes out again, uncertain, unsteady. 

“Well,” Aramis says, still deceptively light. 

“You got a problem?” Porthos snaps, turning to look at him finally, swelling up in frustration, agitation – uncertainty. Now that the thought is there, it niggles at the back of his mind and his shoulders are tense and he doesn’t have _time_ for Aramis’ jealousy. 

“No,” Aramis says, lips thin. “I’d never say a bad word about your wid… Alice.” 

“ _Good._ Keep it that way.” 

Aramis goes very quiet again. 

Porthos clenches his jaw, sighs out in his frustration, and slumps back down into his chair. He smoothes his hand out over the letter, reads it again for more secret clues, for _anything_ that could pinpoint whether the daughter is—

He breathes out. “Why would it take this long to say, though?” 

“We were at war,” Aramis offers.

Porthos shakes his head. “Before that.” 

“She’s telling you now,” Aramis offers, tentatively. He hovers a little, just beyond Porthos’ reach – like he wants to step to him and comfort him, but unsure if it’d be welcomed now. From the corner of his eye, Porthos can see the way he’s tensed up in the shoulders.

Porthos sighs out and holds out his hand towards him. Aramis breathes out and steps to him, takes his hand and threads their fingers together. He drops a kiss to the top of Porthos’ head. He’s shaking a little. 

“It’ll be alright,” he offers and Porthos wonders if he truly believes that. 

 

-

 

The day he’s meant to have dinner with Alice and her daughter – her _daughter_ – Aramis helps him dress. It’s an old tradition for Aramis to help Porthos through seduction – more times than Porthos can count, Aramis has helped him choose an outfit, dotted perfume at his wrist and neck, kissed him until he is relaxed and liquid before sweeping out to court a woman. This time, though, it’s more charged. Aramis holds out a delicate shirt, laced collar high up and strung along the wrists. He waits for Porthos’ approving nod. 

It’s been a stilted silence between them the last few days. He knows that Aramis is avoiding him – and yet gravitating towards him, believing himself in the way with his thoughts and yet unable to let things lie, unable to truly leave Porthos alone. It’s just as well. Porthos never exactly likes Aramis to be too far away – an aftermath to watching him walk away down that long lane of trees so many years ago. 

Aramis hovers around him and Porthos sighs out, turns a little, and holds up his arms for the shirt. Aramis steps closer. He helps Porthos into it, touches at his face once he’s done, cupping his cheeks. 

He offers him a small smile, tentative. 

“Porthos,” Aramis murmurs, looks as if he’ll say something and then thinks better of it. Looks down. 

“You’re wondering what I’ll do if – if she really is…” Porthos trails off, frowns, then says, “my daughter.” 

Aramis nods, face twisting up into something pained –envy and jealousy at once. Porthos knows what this means to Aramis – that it is Alice at all, that it involves a child that Porthos might be able to claim. He knows what it means to Aramis in both things – a fear and a longing. He covers the hand on his cheek, leans into the touch. 

“Hey,” he whispers quietly, waits until Aramis looks up at him. He is rattled and he is uncertain – but he can at least reassure Aramis. He isn’t sure what to say, though – there isn’t anything, really, that he can say that could assure him. Quietly, he says, “It’s going to be alright.” 

Aramis offers him a tentative smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If she’s yours – you have to… you can’t—”

“I know,” Porthos interrupts, feels his heart thrumming in his chest. “Do you really think I’d just leave?” 

Aramis hiccups and shakes his head, his eyes a hundred miles away, dozens of years in the past – thinking of a woman and a child he lost. He presses a hand to his eyes and scrubs with a pained, self-conscious little laugh. “You can’t let yourself miss a chance. And – and when you’re gone—”

“Hey,” Porthos interrupts, stilling. “I’m not _leaving_.”

Aramis shakes his head, flaps his hand. “Stop comforting me. Think of yourself. I know you – before you… wanted to marry her.” 

Porthos bites at the inside of his cheek, then cups Aramis’ face and tilts it up so he can kiss him gently. Aramis makes a soft whimpering sound and touches his cheeks in turn, melting into him. 

Porthos breaks apart with a small sigh. “It’ll be alright.” 

Aramis doesn’t say anything. He isn’t one to cry often, but he’s dredging up ghosts – thinking of Isabelle, and thinking of Anne and the dauphin (both alive, both healthy, but both too far away for him to touch; Porthos wonders how much of Aramis is envy and how much is resentment that Porthos should have this chance with a woman he loves). 

Porthos pulls him into his arms. Holds him a long time until both their breathing evens out. 

 

-

 

Somehow, he shouldn’t be surprised that when he approaches Alice’s home, the daughter in question should be playing in the yard. It’d be just his luck that he should hear her so far away – that it should strike both fear and expectation into his heart. He doesn’t know what he expects. He doesn’t know what to feel. 

If she is his daughter, he can’t just ignore that. He can’t just turn away from that. But he remembers holding Alice’s hand upon that field after the challenge, shaking her head and saying she could not live in a world of such violence. Being a musketeer is all he’s ever known, all he’s ever wanted to be – to be without it now, after all this time. He thinks of Aramis, shaking apart in his arms, full of longing and fear. He thinks of Athos, his captain and friend, standing at the balcony to his office and staring out at the horizon for too long, waiting for a woman who isn’t coming back. He thinks of d’Artagnan, married and happy and still a musketeer all the same. To lose that now, to gain this now—

He hears her laughter before he’s cleared the wall lining her manor. He remembers taking this walk so many times so many years ago, remembers walking Alice arm-in-arm from the church that first day – how giddy he’d felt, even then, how much he’d wanted to know her. He pauses in his approach, his heart suddenly twisted up and shoved up into his throat. He tries to breathe. He closes his eyes, takes a moment, and then steps out into the gateway, turning towards the yard. 

Alice’s daughter plays in the yard. She’s squeaking out in her laughter and paying no mind to Porthos as she darts around the maids attending her. 

Porthos notices three things in quick succession as he stands in the archway of Alice’s gatehouse: 

The first, she is blonde, fair-skinned – her eyes bright and gentled. Alice’s eyes. 

The second, she is young – too young, hardly older than a toddler, her mouth open in a smile of missing teeth and chapped lips. 

The third, there is no question that the daughter is not his. Could never possibly be of his own blood. 

And the thing he notices most, the thing that strikes him deeper as he removes his hat in greeting, as he stands up a little taller against the forceful, exalted twist of pain deep in his gut. What he notices most—

—is the crushing, aching, devastating disappointment. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what he expected to feel in this moment, either with confirmation or denial. 

He opens his eyes only when he hears Alice call his name – opens them and sees her sweeping down the steps, smiling at him. She’s just as beautiful as he remembers her being – her hair a little different now, longer and swept up in the new styles of Paris. Her dress is a soft blue – his favorite color, his favorite color on her – and she stops only to scoop up her daughter into her arms and then approach Porthos, leaning up on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek in greeting. 

He doesn’t move the entire time, feeling numb, feeling—

Uncertain. He doesn’t know what he expected to feel. 

 

-

 

The walk back to the garrison is a quiet and slow one. He spends the evening with Alice – reminiscent of old times, remembers that deep and aching love he feels for her even now. They speak of the years between them – Porthos glosses over the war but tells her the less violent bits, emphasizes the sights and the sceneries because he knows she will like it. She speaks of the traveling she’s done herself – speaks of the countries she hopes to see once Sophie is old enough to travel without incident. Porthos skirts around speaking about the daughter – Sophie – but the topic comes up regardless. Her father is a wealthy merchant in England, and through it all Alice has remained unmarried despite the scandal of it. But then, Alice was never one to shy away from what was done and what is proper – he has always loved that about her. She is self-assured in her own wealth and position. She travels enough that the rumors rarely touch her. He doesn’t know if she suspects that he thought about Sophie as his own before meeting her, doesn’t know if she suspects that his lackluster response to conversation isn’t the fatigue of war but the fatigue of fruitless longing. There is no point to feeling as if he is in mourning. There is no point. 

He kisses her goodbye, though. Gently, first on her cheek and then on her lips when she gives him a coy and scolding smile for his chastity. If he wanted, he thinks he could spend the night – that she would not protest, that she would wake in the morning wrapped in his arms and invite him to breakfast, and he could be happy – he could pretend that it was normal, that this—

He closes his eyes, kisses her again, gentle and longing – he loves her, how he loves her, but they belong to two different worlds. 

He kneels and takes Sophie’s hand, kisses it gently and thanks her for a pleasant evening. She doesn’t speak to him – still too shy, still too young, and instead hides behind her mother. But the kiss does earn him a small smile, her eyes twinkling from beneath unruly clumps of blonde hair flopping over her forehead and down into her eyes. She’s a beautiful child – and she looks nothing like him. 

He straightens, kisses Alice’s hand in turn and promises to write her. She promises to recount him all her travels. 

He walks back to the garrison, his movements slow and heavy. He doesn’t know how he feels anymore. 

Once he does get there, Aramis is waiting, leaning against the support post in the courtyard. He’s been cleaning his gun, something to occupy his hands, something for him to do. He’s waiting outside, Porthos knows, because likely he was too agitated, too antsy to stay cooped up in one place. Aramis straightens when he sees Porthos – looks hesitant for a moment, schooling his expression into one of impartiality. 

He steps forward. “Porthos—”

Before he can ask, before Porthos can think to prepare either of them for it – all he does is shake his head and look down at his boots. Scuffs at some of the hay lying there. 

“No,” he says and does not have to clarify. Aramis is before him instantly, touching his shoulders gently. “… I didn’t know how I would feel,” Porthos admits, voice quiet. “But – once I saw her, once I realized…” He clasps his hands together over his belt, something to do, something to hold onto. He breathes, and then he’s laughing out softly, painfully. “I was disappointed.”

Aramis reaches out, covers his hands with his, cupping them gently and squeezing. He doesn’t have to say it – doesn’t have to tell him that he understands, that he _knows_. It goes unsaid between them, but fully understood. 

“Let’s get you back to your room,” he whispers and Porthos says nothing. Aramis leads him along and Porthos goes without protest. 

Once inside, Aramis works at undressing Porthos piece by piece, slides his hands over his shoulders and his clavicle, touch gentle and reverent. His thumbs brush along the pendant for St. Jude. Aramis looks up at him a few times, searches his face, but Porthos doesn’t have anything to say and there’s nothing that Aramis can offer that Porthos hasn’t already thought. 

Once they’re both down to their shirtsleeves, Aramis steps into his space, curls his arms around him, and hugs him. It is both comfort and painful. Porthos slumps against him, his entire body losing its fight – he cushions his chin to Aramis’ shoulder and then turns his head, breathing into his neck and clenching his eyes shut. He doesn’t feel pathetic for this – if only because he knows Aramis would understand, that Aramis would never judge him for it. 

“It’s stupid,” Porthos whispers out, a small hiccup of mirthless amusement lacing his words, “to miss something I never even had.” 

He can admit to himself, quietly, that he envisioned what it would be like – seeing a little girl, who looks like him and looks like Alice, with Alice’s eyes and his hair, with her smile and his dimples. Envisioned finding Alice again, marrying her this time properly, being a father to a girl he should always do right by – can’t stand the idea of a child growing up without her father. Envisioned getting in contact with Belgarde again solely for her benefit, for the benefit of her inheritance and nothing more. He’d have done it. He wouldn’t have even hesitated, if it meant she would have a life, a good life. 

He’d let himself imagine it. That, perhaps, is worse of all. That, at least, is what aches the most – mourning a life he doesn’t have and can’t have. A fool’s errand. 

He breathes out a shaky laugh, closes his eyes. Aramis makes a soft sound beside him. 

“It was real to you,” Aramis whispers, voice far too thick with understanding. 

“Yeah,” he admits. 

Aramis kisses his temple and says nothing, just holds him tighter. Porthos understands what he doesn’t say, knows that Aramis understands better than Porthos himself ever could what this feels like, what this means. 

“It was real to you,” Aramis repeats, quietly. “That’s what matters.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me [on my tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


End file.
